


As One Observes the Stars

by temperamental_mistress



Series: A Shower of Sparks [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Era, Gen, Introspection, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9914180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: Inspector Javert was not a man who wasted his time in daydreams or in wondering about “what if”.





	

Inspector Javert was not a man who wasted his time in daydreams or in wondering about “what if”. He performed the tasks necessary for his job with accuracy and attention to detail, never questioning the law that guided him. His rise through the ranks had been no accident — he had worked for every achievement in his life. And so, in the aftermath of a late-day protest broken up near the Jardin du Luxembourg, Javert focused on his work, and did not spend time ruminating. 

He did not think about the two students who had escaped in the chaos of the police arriving at the scene. They would come to justice in time, he was certain. It was a rare protester who only spoke out once. Instead, Javert took pride in the fact that they had captured the third student, clearly the most volatile of the group. The redhead had put up an impressive fight for someone so short and lithe, and had evaded capture for several long minutes through a wild series of kicks and punches to any who could get near him. While Javert tried not to think about the bruise the boy had left just below his right eye, the pain was difficult to ignore. 

He did not think about how young the boy was as the police bound his hands tightly behind him. If this child was old enough to lead a protest and fight off three larger men at once, he was old enough to face the consequences of his actions. A night in custody would give the young hothead a chance to cool off. 

Even with his nose bleeding sluggishly in the wake of a baton blow, the boy had not come quietly. For the better part of an hour and a half, the boy had not stopped speaking, pausing only to breathe. Rather than answering any questions, or demanding to be set free like a normal person, the boy had recited what sounded suspiciously like poetry in every language but French, switching between them immediately whenever anyone showed the slightest hint of comprehension. Javert did not think about his mother’s lyrical speech, which had lulled him to sleep in ways that French never could. He did not think about how every one of her words would now be as unintelligible to him as this boy’s poetry, were she still alive. He did not think about the morning he had first realized that his sharp tongue could no longer form his mother’s smooth, song-like words.

The boy’s voice gave out eventually, but the fight never seemed to leave him. Javert stared at him through the bars, watching closely for any hint of a spark, although the boy’s hands were tied out of view. The boy stared right back at him, eyes alight with anger and frustration and hatred in a way that reminded Javert all too clearly of Toulon. He did not think about the eyes that haunted his sleep, taunting him from just beyond his reach. He did not think of the man he would rather see sitting in this cell, who certainly belonged here. He did not think about how easily that same man had escaped him again and again over the years. 

Javert looked away first. While he regretted giving the boy the satisfaction of winning that confrontation, there was something about that piercing gaze that unsettled his stomach, and sent his mind spinning away from the task at hand. He turned, planning to order a guard to watch through the night for any sign of sparks, knowing well that the odds of magic overflow increased as exhaustion set in. He did not think about the circumstances in which he had learned that fact. He did not think about sparks gathered around his mother’s palm like stars, chasing away whatever shadows had filled his young mind with terror in the dead of night. He did not think about the simultaneous guilt and relief he felt over not having inherited his mother’s sparks. He most definitely did not think about the twisting in his gut, or the tightening of his chest whenever an arrest sent someone to have their magic Burned out of them. 

He did not think about the screams, but they lingered in his ears regardless. 

Javert gave one last glance at the boy in the cell. He continued to stare with the same intensity as before, no less defiant than when he still had his limbs and voice to aid him. A single night in prison would never put out so hot a fire, Javert knew. Still, he gave no order for a watch.

He departed for home, never looking up at the stars above that so closely resembled sparks. He did not think about morning, when the boy would be set free for lack of evidence and a suitable translator. He did not think about the consequences, just this once.


End file.
